The Piper of Durmstrang
by OlorinTheMaiar
Summary: Harry Potter is rescued from the Dursleys by his thrice great grandfather on his mother's side. Now going back to England for the Triwizard tournament, how will this new Harry use his skills to stay alive... and what does a fife have to do with it?


**The Piper of Durmstrang**

**by Olorin the Maiar  
**

**I was listening to some Medieval-esque musical composition and this idea popped into my head. I am currently entrenched in exams and I wrote this to relax and unwind. Tell me what you think of it. Should I continue it or should I let it drop after the couple of chapters I have planned. If you want to listen to the song that gave me this idea, go to Youtube and search 'Bache Bene Venies' and it is the first video.  
**

**A/N: A few things I would like to point out. 1) Harry is three years older than his age in the books. He is a seventh year and, having just turned seventeen, he is elligable to enter his name for the Tournament. 2)If I do continue this story, it will most likely be either Harry/Fleur, Harry/FemaleOC, or possibly (and I am just toying with this thought for now) ****Harry/Fleur/FemaleOC.**  


* * *

May 17, 1983

Heinrich Jakob Bach IV leisurely hobbled down the quiet street of Privet Drive, serenely taking in the repetitive design of the Little Whinging's residential district. While he had been to Little Whinging before, the landscape had drastically changed. The last time he was here, he had been part of an international team trying to clean up the residue from the magical explosives that the Dark Lord Grindelwald's artificers had created for Hitler's bombing of Britain during World War II when the muggles couldn't keep up with the mad German dictator's demands. He had been hated by the English back then for being German back then. The English had been so devastated by that war, they did not see that he had fled to his sister-in-law, Bathilda, in England to escape Gellert Grindelwald's and Adolf Hitler's depravity once war had broken out. They did not see that he had lost his only living descendant, his granddaughter, fleeing to the security that the island nation provided during the madness of World War II, separated when the freighter he had been fleeing on had been torpedoed, forcing him to swim to shore. He had lost her that day. But today, he was trying to right that travesty.

Through years of research, he had finally found what had become of little Emma. That was why he was here in this small post-war village. Emma's granddaughter, Petunia Dursley neè Evans, lived here. Of course, due to the International Statute of Secrecy, he couldn't tell his great-great-granddaughter his real age or true relation. After a month and a half of negations and clarifications with the German Zauberministerium he was granted permission to tell stretch the truth slightly, saying that he was only her great-grandfather, a story that was definitely more believable then saying that he was a one hundred and fifty six year old wizard.

Finally arriving at Number Four, Heinrich looked upon the small front yard with a critical eye, trying to discern something from the small postage stamp of grass about those that lived here. The grass was trimmed to precision, forming a soft green carpet. The hedge of roses which dominated the beds were in full bloom, the large red flowers producing an almost overpowering scent. Heinrich frowned at the lush foliage that dominated the yard. From what he had gathered from the fliers posted around the town and the parched and brittle grass that dominated many of the other yards, Little Whinging was in the middle of the worst drought that had afflicted this area in fifty years. It seemed the Dursleys thought themselves above the laws and needs of their neighbors.

Sighing at the Dursley's disregard for both the law and the welfare of their fellow man, Heinrich hobbled up the garden path to the front door, leaning heavily on his cane. With a long fingered hand, a musician's hand, he rapped on the door and waited. Inside he could hear two sets of footsteps nearing the door, one strong and commanding, bringing back memories of click of the Gestapo's boots as they arrested his wife and children, the other, weak and faltering, as if the footsteps' owner was almost being dragged. Abruptly, Heinrich could hear the steps stop somewhere in the hallway beyond the door. A muffled low conversation filtered through the solid wood of the barrier between them, most of the words lost as the door dampened the sound. Heinrich, however could swear he had heard the words 'freak', 'parents', and 'lesson'. There was a thud as if something heavy was thrown against a wall and a door was quickly shut. The commanding footsteps continued to the door, which was quickly thrown open.

While Heinrich had hoped that some of his beloved Emma had been passed down to his descendent, he was sadly mistaken. If anyone could be classified as 'horse-like' it was the woman standing in front of him. Whereas his Emma had possessed a wide heart-shaped face, adorned with an almost ever-present smile (even in those days that they spent hiding in the countryside as they fled north), Petunia Dursley had a thin face, a seemingly perpetual look of unpleasantness, as if she was constantly sucking on an unripe lemon, strained her already thin face. Heinrich couldn't help but think that there was something distinctively _English_ about her.

"May I help you?" Her accent was odd. Being the musician that Heinrich was, he detected intonation and inflection that did not fit into the Oxfordian English that she spoke. It was almost as if she was trying to overcome her native speech patterns. Her origins were decidedly working-class, but she had made a concerted effort to hide her lower-class upbringing. Heinrich felt pity for this child. She should have been proud of her parent's instead of hiding their toils to provide their daughter with a better life. She should have held her head high if someone had looked down on her for her roots.

"Yes," While wavering somewhat from old age, his voice was still musical and flowing, his Bavarian accent only adding to the cultured aspect of his speech, "Vould you, by any chance, be Petunia Dursley?"

"Why yes, yes I am," while Petunia had her mouth plastered into a polite smile, Heinrich could see the impatience in the tightness and intensity of her eyes.

"Petunia Dursley, formerly Petunia Evans, who is the granddaughter of Emma Regina Evans, formerly Emma Bach?"

"Yes?" Heinrich could hear the strain on her voice, her smile faltering as he brought up her heritage. Despite his great great granddaughter's evident discomfort at the mention of her family, the elderly Bavarian wizard gave a warm smile. He had finally completed the task he had set himself that horrible moment that his eighteen year old granddaughter had been swept from his arms in the North Sea off of the eastern coast of England. While his search had to be put on the backburner for the past thirty years as he had taken up the post of Chancellor of Durmstrang Institute of Magic, the international political connections that he had collected while governing Eastern Europe's magical school had finally paid off in the culmination of his quest. He had found his lost family.

"I am sorry, but may I come in? In my old age, I am not as strong as I once vas," normally his sliver-capped ebony cane's only purpose was to conceal his wand, but today he was leaning on it heavily, trying to play his role of her ninety-eight year old great grandfather. Peturia appeared to be about to turn him away but, fortunately for Heinrich, a voice interrupted the conversation before she was able to speak.

"Lovely day, isn't it, Petunia?" Heinrich turned to see one of the residents Little Whinging stopped in front of Number four, waving merrily at Petunia with one hand, the other at her side, holding leads that were attached to what looked like a dozen cats. Heinrich immediately knew that this woman was not what she appeared. He could feel the small magical core radiating from the woman. While the core was not enough to allow her active control of her magic, it was present none the less. She was a squib like his little lost Emma. Taking another look at the cats that were now entwining themselves in the small rosebush hedge, still attached to their leads, Heinrich realized that this must be the woman that the Zauberministerium had warned him about. She could only be Arrabella Figg, a breeder of half-kneezels, the only magical person know to the Zauberministerium living in Little Whinging, and (most importantly) one of Albus Dumbledore's flunkies.

"Quite beautiful, yes," Petunia's strained voice replied, annoyance barely discernible in her voice, "It's nice to see you, Arrabella," She turned back to Heinrich and motioned inside, "Let's move into the sitting room, shall we?"

As soon as Heinrich stepped through the door, he knew there was something off about this residence, something almost... sinister. To the untrained eye, the home was immaculate. The crisp scent of wood polish rose from the hardwood floors of the hall and the staircase. Pictures adorned the walls of the front hall, a still portrait of the happy family that was the Dursleys, a tasteful collage of his thrice great grandchild spoke of the family's pride in their son: his first day at the beach, a trip to the zoo, the little tyke (Heinrich used the word in a very liberal sense since the boy must have weighed at least three and a half stone and yet, according to the Zauberministerium, the child was only five) waving at the camera as he played on a swing set. Normally, this would speak of a happy home with loving parents (although one of them must have been obsessive compulsive for the house to be this clean), but it wasn't the normal aspects of the house that worried the old German.

He could feel the magic that this house had been repeatedly subjected to. It was so powerful, raw, out of control. But the magnitude of it and its almost constant use... that did not bode well for the young witch or wizard. This magic wasn't directed at a the house itself, for, if it had, Heinrich doubted the house would have been left standing. No, this accidental magic was directed inwards, but to what purpose, the man did not know. This, however disconcerting, was not the thing that concerned the Durmstrang Chancellor the most.

He smelled blood, both old and new. The smell seemed to be burning his nose in a way that only meant one thing. The blood was magical.

As Petunia turned the corner into the small sitting room at the front of the house, Heinrich was granted a quick glance of the hallway beyond. The man's hawk-like eyesight picked up the small, almost invisible trail of blood that led from the kitchen to a small boot cupboard that resided under the stairs that ascended to the upper level. Just as he turned into the sitting room, not wanting Petunia to know that he had spotted something amiss, Heinrich could have sworn that he had seen a small pair of eyes pleadingly peer up at him through the small air vent at the bottom of the door, piercing emerald eyes that eerily reminded him of his lost little Emma.

Forcing himself to remain composed, Heinrich seated himself on the uncomfortable yet seemingly expensive settee. He didn't care if this woman was his great great granddaughter, he was going to get to the bottom of this.

Petunia cleared her throat, seemingly annoyed that Heinrich hadn't started talking yet.

"Ah, I am sorry for taking up your time. I guess I shall start from the beginning, shall I?" Petunia only raised a horsey eyebrow (how an eyebrow could be horsey, Heinrich did not know, but the term fit) at him, "As you can tell, I am German. I vas living in Munich when the War broke out. At the time, I vas part of a group of people trying to smuggle the Jews out of Germany, even before those monsters started throwing them in the camps. In April of 1940, the Gestapo came to arrest me. At the time, I vas taking my daughter to the market. That was the only reason ve survived. The monsters slaughtered my family while they ver vaiting for me. A neighbor was able to get away and varn me," tears slowly traced the old man's wrinkles as he told his story, but Heinrich didn't seem to notice, "My daughter and I fled north, to England. Ve boarded a freighter and could actually see the English coast when our ship was torpedoed by a U-boat. As the ship vent down, my daughter and I ver separated. For the past forty five years I have been searching for her, and now I think I have found the last of my family. My daughter's name vas Emma Bach, she vas your grandmother."

* * *

They had been talking for over an hour, and Heinrich had yet to find out any information about the magical child that was locked in the cupboard under the stairs. He knew that the child was not in any immediate danger. Whoever he was, it was definitely not Petunia's son. As soon as Heinrich had seen those pleading green eyes, he had reached out with his magic, much the same way that healers did to a patient when they were in need of constant monitoring. The boy was extremely small for his age, grossly malnourished. At the first opportunity he was afforded, the man had pulled out his wand and quietly cast a sleeping spell through the wall, saving the boy from the pain that his broken jaw caused him. As the time passed, Heinrich couldn't help but be impressed by the child's power. Already, the bone was knitting itself back together. He could feel it working underneath the magic that he had laid over the child to monitor his health. Recognizing it as the same accidental magic that permeated this house, he was only barely able to repress a shudder at the amount of violence the child must had faced within this house.

Throughout the conversation he had been having with the monster that was his descendant, he had been looking for a chance to get away from Petunia and go examine the boy. Finally, the opportunity had presented itself. He had finally tried a new tactic to get the woman to open up and relax around him. He told her about his rather profitable side career as a muggle composer before the war (what he didn't tell her was that he only did it to pass the time during his holidays and breaks from teaching at Durmstrang) and that her family were welcome to come visit him in Munich any time. This last statement had been an outright lie; he didn't want those monsters anywhere near Munich. If this was the last he saw of the Dursleys, he would not shed a tear. The prospect of a rich, famous relative did, however, make Petunia happy and relaxed enough to offer him tea.

"Oh, thank you, my dear! That vould be vonderful. I must, however, ask your permission to use your restroom in the meantime." Heinrich would use the time it took for Petunia to make the tea to check on the boy. Hopefully, he could gather enough evidence to give to the Zauberministerium, who could then forward it to British Ministry of Magic. However much he despised the British magical government, there was no way that they would allow this child abuse to continue. While he wanted to take the boy straight to the Aurors, he couldn't. He was not registered as a visiting wizard with the British Ministry and would be arrested on the spot, no matter how many political connections he had in mainland Europe. The British magical world had always been ass-backwards with their priorities. Most likely he would be branded a 'Dark Wizard' and thrown in that hell-hole of a prison, Azkaban, for the rest of his life.

"Of course, Grandfather!" Petunia gave a small tittering laugh that was anything but attractive, "I will put the kettle on. You take all the time you need. It is the second door on your right in the hallway," in an attempt to appear more cultured, she tried to gracefully rise from the chair, only succeeding to look drunk as she overcompensated her balance and almost fell face first into the low coffee table in the center of the room. Seemingly not noticing that she just had made a fool of herself, she went out through a doorway in the opposite side of the room. As the door opened Heinrich could see what appeared to be the dining room and, beyond that, the kitchen.

Thanking his luck that Petunia was most likely not going to be coming back through the hall when she returned with the tea, he hobbled (still playing his part as an feeble old man) out of the sitting room and down the hall to the restroom. As he passed the small cupboard in which the boy was still sleeping, the smell of old blood grew stronger. Looking around to make sure that he was out of Petunia's line of sight, he opened and shut the bathroom door, pretending to have gone inside. Shedding his act of age induced weakness, he quietly, yet quickly padded over to the small door of the cupboard. He could barely contain his rage when he saw that Petunia had padlocked the door, locking the poor child in.

Heinrich removed his wand from its place in his wrist holster. With a quick tap and a nonverbal _Alohomora_, the clicked open. A short flick of his wand at the hinges of the door silenced any squeaks that could possibly give away what he was doing. Heinrich gave a deep sigh, his hand on the handle of the small door, resolving himself to what he might see inside. He opened the door.

Heinrich Bach had seen many, many horrible things in his life, his involvement with the magical troops who fought against Hitler and Grindelwald had assured that. While the sight in front of him did not come close to some of the atrocities of that war, it shook him as much as it had when he accompanied the Soviet troops during the liberation of Auschwitz. He couldn't believe that such inhumanity could exist in such a quaint suburban town like Little Whinging.

The boy was huddled in a small ball in a corner of the cupboard. Heinrich did not, however, had the chance to ponder this because almost as soon as he had opened the door, a wave of stench flowed out of the small space. Gagging and eyes watering, the old man quickly cast a spell to try and neutralize the stench. While the odor was making it extremely difficult for the man to breathe, he did it not for his own benefit, but rather the boy's. If the smell reached Petunia, then she would know for certain that the boy had gotten out of his cupboard. He shivered at the thought of what she would do to the boy when he left to report this to the Zauberministerium, should she find out.

Old blood. It was everywhere.

The floor seemed to be so saturated in the substance that it had turned the light colored hard wood floor black. In the corner opposite where the child was curled up was what looked to be a pile of old vomit next to a large lidded plastic Tupperware container. From the dark outlines that Heinrich was able to see through the semi-opaque sides, he guessed that this was the small boy's toilet.

As Heinrich took in detail after detail, he quickly dismissed the possibility of leaving this child with the Dursleys while he reported the abuse. He couldn't let that happen. The only option that wouldn't get him thrown in prison was to take the child to the Zauberministerium. He had friends there. He could seek asylum for the child on the grounds that the British Ministry of Magic had done nothing to stop this abuse.

Heinrich cast a gentle cleaning charm over the boy, removing the semi-congealed blood that was smeared over the left side of the boy's face from the cut over his eye and his broken nose. With a strength that defied his age, the old man picked up the child and carried him to the sitting room.

He was going to get answers and he was going to get them now!

Petunia let out a small scream when she saw her grandfather enter the room, holding the battered child to his chest. The teapot slid from her fingers as she felt her whole body go numb from shock and the fear that their secret had come out.

"Who is he!" Heinrich growled, the short sentence implying a great amount of pain, should she not answer.

"H-he's my nephew," Petunia was terrified, not only from the discovery of the boy, but also of the man standing in front of her. Gone was the old feeble man she had been conversing with earlier. In his place was now a man who wouldn't hesitate to kill her if he did not like her answers.

"Your nephew! How can you do this to anyone? Let alone your own nephew!" While Petunia was extremely scared, it seemed as though her hatred for the boy was even greater.

"How?" the woman shrieked, "The freak deserved it, just like his parents did! Ever since Lily ran off to that school she changed. She thought she was oh so better than us _normal_ people. The world is better off without her. That Volevort fellow did the world a service by killing her and that Potter bastard!"

Heinrich's eyes widened at her rant. He glanced down the small boy in his arms. This was Harry Potter, the savior of wizarding Britain and a celebrity throughout Europe. This was the Boy-Who-Lived, the only person who had ever survived the _Avada Kedavra_ killing curse. This was his thrice great grandson, the descendant of his little Emma, the same boy who bore Emma's piercing green eyes.

He could not let this go. This was his family. He had failed his loved ones once by not being there to stop their deaths at the hands of the Gestapo. He was not going to fail his family again by leaving this child here to be abused at the hands of his aunt and uncle, no matter what their relation to him was. Heinrich could not condemn this child to becoming a puppet for that manipulative bastard Albus Dumbledore, for that was almost assuredly what his fate would be should the child stay in Britain.

Deciding on his course of action, Heinrich raised his wand, pointing it at his great great grandaughter. Petunia was now white as a sheet, finally realizing that Heinrich was a wizard.

"_Obliviate_!"

* * *

October 30, 1994

Jakob Sebastian Bach stood at the railing of the aftcastle, watching his classmates scurry about the Durmstrang Galleon, preparing it for its first voyage in over three hundred years. Many of his less talented classmates were scouring the vessel from prow to stern, seaboard to starboard. The multicolored lights of spells flashed and danced on the ship's mirror bright brass fixture as some of the more advanced seventeen year olds went about reinforcing the wards and enchantments. There were only two students who were not participating in the mad rush to put the finishing touches upon the Galleon. Jakob was one, his best friend, Victor Krum, was the other.

Jakob and Victor had been friends ever since they had both made the Quidditch team that Durmstrang sent each year to compete International Intra-School Quidditch League. While Jakob had originally made the seeker position on the team, he had hated it. He actually wanted to be a chaser, but no one had tried out for seeker, and Jakob was the best, so he automatically got the spot and a reserve was put in to fill his empty space. Ruytnik, the team's coach had said that if he could find a player as good, if not better than him at seeker, he could go back to his old position. One day, after flying around the grounds of Durmstrang to clear his head after an infuriating practice, he had found Krum. The boy was too busy doing acrobatics and seeker maneuvers to notice Jakob. When he finally got Victor's attention, he had gushed over the boy's evident skills as a seeker. Unfortunately, Victor refused, using his clubbed foot and large build as an excuse for his lack of self confidence. It wasn't until a week before their first match (unfortunately against L'Acadamia de Medici from Florence, who won the tournament the previous year) that Victor agreed to play after both Jakob's replacement and the replacement's reserve player got seriously injured during Dueling class. Victor became the seeker and Jakob went back to his favorite position as center chaser and the rest was history.

Jakob and Victor did almost everything together since that faithful match. Victor was, in fact, the only person Jakob entrusted with his true identity. The Bulgarian had understood the need for secrecy and had even gone so far as to agree to an Unbreakable Vow when Jakob's grandfather learned that Victor knew who his many times great grandson was.

Looking down at his watch, Jakob saw that it was almost time to depart. While Victor might have been the more famous in the everyday world, Durmstrang was Jakob's domain. This was not because his grandfather and guardian was the Chancellor of the school, far from it. No one really cared about that. No, Jakob ruled Durmstrang because of his powers and ability. For this trip, while Victor was the Helmsman, Jakob was the Captain.

The raven haired young man rang the ship's bell, waiting as the students down below scrambled to line up.

"Today, we journey to Hogwarts to help promote unity within the magical world. Over the years, we have forgotten the ties that bind us together." Jakob scanned the crowd, making sure that everyone was listening, "At Hogwarts, you will find great prejudice against us. They will call us 'dark wizards' because we, like most of Europe, do not believe that a spell can be inherently evil or inherently good but rather that it is the intention of the caster that matters," as he registered a few nods within the crowd, he continued, "They will say that we are blood supremacists because of the labeling as a 'dark wizard', but we know better. Treat those around with dignity and respect, even if they don't return it," Jakob smiled, "But most importantly of all, we go to Hogwarts to show the world that when it comes to magical skill, Durmstrang is king!" he let the small roar from the assembled students fade away before barking the first order.

"SATIONS TO THE READY!"

Students sprang into action. Each had their own task and Jakob knew that he could rely upon them to do it.

For the few minutes that it took for the students to ready the ship, Jakob looked out over the barren landscape of the Arctic ice flow that surrounded them. The ship was not actually in the water, but rather propped upright by massive beams, laying on the thick crust of ice. Finally hearing the all-ready whistle from down below, Jakob turned to Victor who was standing resolutely at the helm.

"I'm all ready, Jakob. Take her away." The young man nodded at his Helmsman.

Jakob turned back to the prow and took a calming breath. With deliberate movements, he reached into the thick fur cloak that was secured over his right shoulder and pulled out what looked to be an ancient fife.

While most would have thought that a fife, however old it may be, would not be a suitable tool to help a stranded galleon make its way to a landlocked loch in Scotland, but anyone who had attended Durmstrang in the last six years would know differently. This was a Bach family heirloom. Musical magic was rare to begin with, but over the past thousand years, it has almost become extinct in the west. Music had been a passion of the Bachs for over a thousand years as seen in his squib many times great uncle, Johann Sebastian Bach. Few, however, were able to wield the fife.

Jakob was one of them.

Wetting his lips, the young man brought the small instrument up, took a deep breath and began to play. No matter how many times someone had heard Jakob play the small instrument, they experienced the music like it was for the first time. As the tone of the fife blended from one note to another, other instruments could be heard. Soon, the sounds of a phantom orchestra filled the air.

Jakob played of a cold, lonely journey.

The students aboard the galleon felt the ice under the ship move and split. A great rending noise filled the air as a great crevasse opened in the ice cap in front of them. Victor held on to the helm tightly, while he knew that there charms to prevent the ship from plummeting into the ice canyon that had now opened below them, it didn't mean that there wasn't a split second of fear. With seemingly practiced ease, Victor steered the ship through the jagged frozen mountains of ice as it slowly descended to the water level below. Now was going to be the hard part.

Jakob's slow and beautiful song changed abruptly. The music became violent and raging as mental images of that cold lonely ship being caught in a tempest filled everyone's mind.

Victor couldn't help himself. He knew that Jakob had told him that it would be easier for him to guide them to safety if he didn't look behind him, but again, Victor couldn't help himself. He snuck a peek over his shoulder...

...and immediately regretted it. Behind them was a churning wall of water. Boulders of ice the size of houses were being thrown about by the wave as if they were made of balsa wood. To top off all of this possible disaster was the fact that the wave was being caused by the crevasse closing itself behind them.

Victor focused on the ship. Quickly, he barked out orders for the students to pump more air into the sails. He hoped that he could outrun the wave, he had to. This was definitely a test for his seeker reflexes. At this speed, there was only a few seconds difference between being crushed by one of the immense ice boulders that were being shaken loose by the closing of the crevasse behind them and just barely dodging them. Far in the distance, Victor could see the end of the canyon. He hoped that Jakob wasn't going to be throwing anything else at him this voyage. If there was, and, knowing Jakob, there most likely was, he was going to have grey hair by the time the Triwizard Champions were chosen tomorrow.

Finally putting a good distance between the closing slabs of ice and the wall of water and the ship, Victor relaxed slightly. He should have known, however, that it was not meant to last.

Jakob suddenly doubled his tempo, the invoked mental images changec from being caught in a tempest to the ship being literally ripped apart by the winds.

Hearing the near deafening grinding of the walls of ice slamming together increase in volume, he glanced over his shoulder again. Suprisingly, the wall of water and the closing ice was no closer than it was before. Turning back to the front of the ship, Victor paled as he realized the reason for the increase in sound. The end of the crevasse, that is, what Victor thought as the end had began to close, sending another wave of water headed towards the ship. This time, there was no escape. There were no ice caverns that he could turn into. Jakob and his damned music had condemned some of the brightest young minds Europe had to offer to either a watery grave or an icy tomb.

Victor ordered the students in charge of the sails to decrease the speed slightly, mentally calculating the point both waves would collide. He would rather everyone die instantaneously than some poor soul be left alive and possibly without a wand and be crushed to death by the walls of ice, or even worse, trapped in an ice cave and starve.

Jakob's song came to its clamorous apex as the waves slammed into the aft and bow. The phantom orchestra fell silent, the only thing audible above the cacophonous sound of the ice was a pure peaceful note as the walls slammed shut upon the students of Durmstrang.

* * *

**So... What ya think? Please review, they are a high point in my day now that exams are here!**


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